


Existence

by canyouseemyspark



Series: Dorne [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canyouseemyspark/pseuds/canyouseemyspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those who can't do, teach?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Existence

He’s never on time. Edric might have been understanding had he been registered in one of the 9 am discussion sections but class was at 11 and that definitely wasn’t too bad, that was definitely doable no matter how long he had to trek to get to campus. Still, week after week, he’d sneak through the doors (as though Edric somehow couldn’t see, as though they weren’t in a tiny classroom with ten other students) his  hair disheveled, his clothes never ironed, stained and torn up like he’d been in a fight and spend at least the first ten minutes after finding a seat looking through his black backpack, noisily fishing out a pencil and a notebook. Edric was busy the first few weeks of the semester, too overwhelmed with comps and meetings with his advisers that he barely had time to even read the homework his students turned in and even though it was annoying as fuck, that’s all it was, _annoying_. 

It was a little more than that when the middle of the semester came around and he was still showing up late, when he had the balls not to just slink into his seat like he usually did but to smile at Edric as he taught, a rueful lopsided thing that showed off a perfect set of teeth and that seemed to say and-just-what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it. If he going to show up late every single time then what was the point of even coming at all? And the way he stared too, the way he looked at Edric when he asked a question and the rest of the students had their eyes glued on their desk as though they suddenly couldn’t understand English. He never volunteered, never once raised his hand, but stared at Edric all the same, unashamed. Edric made sure to learn his name after that, looking at the name written on top of the midterm assignment he turned in at the end of the class. 

 _Trystane Martell_. 

Edric was responsible for almost forty students and three sessions, and even though it was his uncle Arthur’s class he was TA’ing for he still had to look through all the assignments the students turned in first before, give them a preliminary grade his uncle would then stick to or change. It was tedious; Edric was never arrogant but he was getting his PhD in Middle Eastern Studies, was born and raised in Algeria, had spent most of his life learning everything he could about his country and to read a bunch of assignments by spoiled American kids in an undergraduate class on the literature of the MENA region was unbearable at best. It took him a week to motivate himself to even look at the stack of papers, cutting it close to his uncle’s deadline for turning in grades. It would be satisfying this time though, he told himself, to read through this Martell kid’s paper and know that he was just as vapid on paper as he came across in person. 

The assignment was vague on purpose, twenty pages analyzing a novel they’d read, focusing on the characters and themes. Nearly 800 pages of reading for Edric to finish over the weekend and he made sure to put Trystane’s on top of the pile, got his red pen ready, savoring the failing grade he would undoubtedly give.

He picked a Lebanese novel, one of the more challenging texts his uncle had assigned, and it was clear early on that he’d read the original in Arabic and not the English translation. It was about a freedom fighter in a coma and the doctor who watched over him in a refugee camp, relating the dying man’s stories and recollections from his own life. The analysis was decent and the writing style clear but it was around the ninth page that things really picked up. Trystane wove a tale about his ailing father, the days and nights he spent by his bedside, talked about his unstable uncle, his brother’s disappearance and his sister’s elopment. It wove through his essay like he was writing his own short story, a saga set in his father’s sprawling house in Casablanca. Edric didn’t know how much of it was true and how much of it was fiction, but he found himself reading it again and again, lost in the rhythm of it, more like a work of poetry than an essay. 

Edric stayed up all night reading it, lost in it, fell asleep on his desk and woke up with such a bad headache he had to send an email off his students and let him know that discussion sections would be cancelled this week. He would be in the class, he wrote, in case any of the students needed anything, knowing that if he stayed in his apartment he’d waste his time doing nothing on his laptop or even worse, keep reading through this kid’s paper, so he left it at home and lugged the rest of them to campus, hunkered down and turned off his phone.

It was about 11:30 when Trystane walked in, a new record even for him, pulling Edric out of his concentrated monotony, this time wearing a red hoodie a pair of black jeans with leather sneakers, and a pair of expensive looking sunglasses. He was holding a cup of coffee in each hand and Edric couldn’t help but smile when it took him a moment to register that the classroom was empty.

No backpack though, which was strange. 

He pushed his sunglasses up with the back of his hand, letting them sit on top of his crop of straight black hair, and gave Edric a sheepish grin.

“Oops?”

Edric tried not to let his amusement show.

“Class is cancelled,” Edric said, taking the risk and switching to Arabic, and even though he was from Algeria and not Morocco like Trystane the dialects were similar enough, “I sent an email.”

Trystane seemed taken back for a moment but responded in a fluid Arabic, as good as any native speaker, “I didn’t check my email this morning.” 

He seemed embarrassed, though he tried to play it off, biting on his lower lip, his black eyes flitting from Edric to the door. Edric noticed he was feeling the same, clicking and unclicking the pen in his hand, and had no idea why. 

Edric shrugged and looked down, the silence beginning to sit heavy between them, wanting the interaction to end but hoping it wouldn’t all the same. There was stillness for a few minutes, him trying to ignore the presence of the other man still in the room, when Trystane set one of the cups of coffee on his desk. 

“They gave me an extra one at the coffee shop,” He shrugged, and now with his hand free he was able to pull his sunglasses off, run his fingers through his hair, “It’s a little cold now though.”

Edric didn’t bother hiding his smile this time.

“Thanks for the cold coffee,” And when Trystane turned to walk away, Edric couldn’t help but call out, “I have a few more papers to get through but if you wanna wait I can treat you to a fresh cup.”

Trystane responded by putting his sunglasses back over his face, and even though it was ridiculous he was smirking as he did it, murmured “I’ll just take my usual seat” and Edric could feel his eyes hot on him for the next half hour, even through the shades.


End file.
